To thinke that I from land to sea, from blisse to bale did go.
I left my natiue soile, full like a retchlesse man,
And vnacquainted of the coast, among the Russes ran:
A people passing rude, to vices vile inclinde,
Folke fit to be of Bacchus traine, so quaffing is the kinde.
Drinke is their whole desire, the pot is all their pride,
The sobrest head doth once a day stand needfull of a guide.
If he to banket bid his friends, he will not shrinke
On them at dinner to bestow a douzen kindes of drinke:
Such licour as they haue, and as the countrey giues,
But chiefly two, one called Kuas, whereby the Mousiket[1] liues.
Small ware and waterlike, but somewhat tart in taste,
The rest is Mead of honie made, wherewith their lips they baste.
And if he goe vnto his neighbour as a guest,
He cares for litle meate, if so his drinke be of the best.
No wonder though they vse such vile and beastly trade,
Sith with the hatchet and the hand, their chiefest gods be made.
Their Idoles haue their hearts, on God they neuer call,
Vnlesse it be (Nichola Bough)[2] that hangs against the wall.
The house that hath no god, or painted Saint within,
Is not to be resorted to, that roofe is full of sinne.
Besides their priuate gods, in open places stand
Their crosses vnto which they crooche, and blesse themselues with hand.
Deuoutly downe they ducke, with forehead to the ground,
Was neuer more deceit in ragges, and greasie garments found:
Almost the meanest man in all the countrey rides,
The woman eke, against our vse, her trotting horse bestrides.
In sundry colours they both men and women goe,
In buskins all, that money haue on buskins to bestoe.
Each woman hanging hath a ring within her eare,